


You're the shit and I'm knee deep in it

by lesbianjackrackham



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianjackrackham/pseuds/lesbianjackrackham
Summary: Kepler touches his team. It's not always professional.





	You're the shit and I'm knee deep in it

Kepler practices touching with his team, whether it’s a hand on the back on Jacobi’s neck or touching Maxwell’s back to let her know that he’s passing by. And look, there is some possessive power play stuff wrapped up in it, but the both respond really well to it, and as much as he knows they whisper and bitch about him behind his back, his presence makes them focus up, makes them better.

It makes Kepler giddy. He’s not—used to intimacy like this. Sustained. Not ending in a snapped neck. Not ordered by a superior officer. 

The bed thing though. Well. 

All three of them in a bed: fine. Kepler doesn’t sleep great, but Jacobi and Maxwell sleep better, work better, and hell, like him better when they all share one shitty double bed on away missions, so who is he to deny his team? Him and Maxwell: surprisingly fine, unless Maxwell snores. Maxwell and Jacobi: unsurprisingly great. 

Him and Jacobi. 

Here’s how it goes: Maxwell, with a bullet wound and an alarming number of Percocet, gets the couch to herself. Jacobi takes a shower and Kepler sits on the bed. Jacobi comes out in a towel, grabs the clothes he forgot to take in with him, and goes back into the bathroom. Kepler pours himself a drink. 

When Jacobi comes out of the bathroom, hair still dripping onto his shoulders, Kepler notices a cut he missed and marches Jacobi back into the bathroom under the weak yellow light. 

“It’s just a scratch,” Jacobi says, as Kepler manhandles him onto the toilet. He’s right, just a small cut above his eyebrow that’s already scabbing over, but Kepler frowns anyway. 

“Strip,” he says. Jacobi blinks up at him. 

“Sir?” 

“You’re no good to me injured, and you already lied about it once—don’t make that face, Jacobi. You told me that blood was Maxwell’s.” 

“I said I thought it was Maxwell’s.” 

“Mr. Jacobi.” Jacobi sighs and tugs his shirt over his head, then reaches his arms out in a mock “ta da.” 

Kepler inspects him. There are bruises scattered across his body, some already purpling, but none look particularly bad. Kepler prods one near the lower ribs, and Jacobi, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. He traces his fingers around to Jacobi’s back, tugs the other man over so he can get a better look.  

“S- sir?” Kepler glances down to where he’s holding Jacobi’s face near his crotch. Ah. He holds him there another second, squeezes his neck, and lets him up. 

“Do I need to have you take off your pants?” Jacobi, looking at the floor, takes a half a breath too long to answer. 

“No sir.”

“Great. Now go to bed.” Jacobi books it out of the room, and Kepler locks the door after him. He turns on the shower, stepping over the now sopping wet shirt Jacobi had let slip to the floor. In the shower he checks himself over for injury, counting his own bruises and scrapes and not comparing them to the ones decorating Jacobi’s body.

The light is off when he exits the bathroom, so he dresses in the dark, towel discarded over a chair. He feels Jacobi watch him as he slips on a pair of sweatpants and a tshirt and slides into the squeaky bed next to him. Jacobi is on his back, his head turned toward the center. Kepler follows suit, and doesn’t look at him.

“Sir?”

The bed feels too small, even though they’ve shared smaller between the three of them. They shared this same bed the night before, Maxwell starfished between them and Jacobi curled against her side. Somehow, they fit. Now, Jacobi’s breath is warm and wet against his neck, and Kepler is too aware of his own heartbeat, a staccato under his sore chest.

He thinks about Jacobi’s damp skin under his hands, the blood rushing to the surface. He thinks about prodding the bruises until Jacobi cries out. He thinks about turning his head and meeting Jacobi in the center of the bed, taking the breath from him with a few fingers to his throat and press of lips.

“Good night, Mr. Jacobi,” he says. After a moment, he feels Jacobi shift and turns to face away from him, and Kepler lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Somehow, he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr. come yell about these garbage people with me @lesbianjackrackham


End file.
